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A Fine Predicament (Retro/Tryste)

RetroWitchcraft

RetroWitchcraft

Star
Joined
Jun 24, 2011
Location
The Basement
Six years ago Esme never thought she could enjoy life on a rural farm, unable to use the devices that she had loved. When she was ten she loved to play video games and she had her own special cell phone because her parents trusted her. Then 'it' happened. It could not be properly described but almost everything modern just stopped working. Guns wouldn't fire anymore. None of her game consoles worked. Her cell phone was fried. Their oven, microwave, refrigerator, and other appliances just stopped working. No one thought it was the end of civilization as they knew it in the first few days but, as time wore on, people either adapted to the new way of life or perished.

Yes, Esme never thought that to survive her mother and father would resort to a farm but she quickly grew to love that way of life. Despite a few things, like the death of her mother due to fever, things were good. Until, that is, something strange began to happen quite a few years later.

The first thing to be taken was their livestock. At first it did not seem to suspect. One or two missing here or there made Esme and her father assume that wolves or another hungry beastie had made away with them in the night. Some loss of sheep during the colder months, when wild game was scarce for critters, was expected. However as time passed, more and more of their livestock began to disappear. By the time the last frost had lifted more than half of their stock had been spirited away. There was nothing her father or her could do in light of this and Esme was terrified.

One day she was out tending to the fields. Normally she would have tended to the animals but most of them were gone. The only ones that they had left were some old work horses past their prime that her father didn't have the heart to put down. She pushed a small trough through some of the dirt to loosen it up. This tiny patch was going to be used for strawberries. Esme loved the delicious red fruit. As she paused to take a drink from her water skin, her pale blue eyes looking out on the horizon. They widened in shock and terror. Instantly she unhooked herself and ran towards her home, dark red wavy hair billowing behind her.

"Father!" she exclaimed as she threw open the door. It slammed against the wall with a loud bang, causing her father to look up from the pot of stew he was stirring in the large pot over the fire.

"What has gotten into you child?" he asked calmly.

"Father, there are men coming towards the farm! Please! We need to do something!"

"Men? You know some people come from the larger city to get some of our produce. Perhaps working outside has fatigued you."

"But these men aren't coming from that direction! They're coming from the East, papa! I think... I think they're the one who have been stealing our livestock! Quick! We have to barricade the front door!"

The father sighed and shook his head, clearly thinking that his daughter was overreacting to something not really that big. "Your imagination always got the better of you. Please, sit down and try to relax. Nothing bad is going to happen. Most of the cannibal gangs are gone now."

"Most. Most isn't all of them." She replied, straining her voice to make a point.

"None have appeared in this area for a long while. Quiet now I-."

That was when he was interrupted by a loud 'bang' and the door splintering into millions of wood slivers as it made contact with the wall. Esme screamed loudly and her father instinctively reached for a machete hanging from the wall. Before he could reach it he was felled with a quick slice. Blood trailed downward as the man fell.

The slender young woman screamed again and ran towards her father, kneeling down in the blood that pooled around him. Why hadn't he listened to her?!

"Pa! Pa!" she exclaimed shrilly. Her delicate fingers pressed against his lips and frothy pink foam bubbled forth. She quickly pulled back. "Oh!"

Menacingly the ones who killed her father lurched forward. While they wasted no time in dispatching her father, they were going to take their time with her as if to savor the suffering of one so weak.

"Come now, little rabbit, you'll not feel pain for too long." the one said, flashing his yellowing teeth. "Pretty girls are my favorite. They taste the best."

This was it. Esme was done for. Fear kept her rooted next to the corpse of her father.
 
Six years ago, Michael had been college bound, his fate seemingly clear. The change, for him, was far than just losing his toys. He had grown up some seven hundred miles to the south and east in a suburb of Atlanta, and when the cars stopped working, it had been anything but a peaceful change over. For the first day or two, people tried to continue their lives as if nothing had changed. Food was still plentiful, then. A week passed, and as it became increasingly obvious that food was going to be hard to come by, the fighting had started. Roving bands of young men at first, going from house to house, searching for hidden hoards of food.

When hoards became scarce, and hunting even more so, people turned on the one large land mammal still in abundance. As a bonus, it was easy to catch, if you weren't squeamish. No one knew who started the eating of humans, but once it started the bands quickly multiplied, and those who did not were quickly killed. Within a month, the city of Atlanta was a charnel house.

Not that Michael had been there during this. He had been among the few who really understood what this change had meant, the fighting and the dying. How little food was produced around the city. The second day after the change, he had stolen a horse from one of the expensive ranches that surrounded the city outskirts. Once he had loaded it up with as much supplies as the poor beast could carry, he left the city and never looked back.

The best weapon he could find then was a Gladius, kept from his days of re-enacting. Those days also provided him a Lorica Segmantata, which with two cans of dark green spray paint was a workable enough suit, and the knowledge of how to use both, at least in theory. He got plenty of practice in the days to come. His destination? Anywhere with food.

He had traveled like that for close to two years, hiding when needed, fighting when he absolutely had to. He improved the Lorica as he went, adding more plates down to his elbows, vambrances for his forearms, and plates down to his knees to protect his lower body as well. The gladius had been traded for a spatha, and the square shield he had taken at first replaced with a round one of boiled steer hide over a half inch of plywood.

He had eventually fallen in with a band of men in similar straights, teaching them the fighting that he had learned, picking up a bit more as he went with them. By the end of his wandering days, he had picked up three dozen men. The band had joined up with a dozen others to make up the founding seed for the city of Karak Dorn. The collection of huts had swelled from a palisaded village to a walled city with high stone walls built by those who came seeking safety and were willing to submit to the founders to earn their keep.

The men of Karak Dorn had sought to bring civilization to the surrounding area, of which her father's farm was just outside of. They had traded with him, and so Michael winced when he saw the trail of the reavers. They had been foolish enough to steal livestock from Karak Dorn, and the city had found it best to be most punitive when it came to dealing with such, destroying the reavers whenever possible to prevent them from returning. It looked like they'd be here just in time to find the dead...not that it was the first time that he'd had to clear an eater cookpot, but it never got more pleasant.

A sharp motion was given to the four horsemen with him, directing them to spread out and surround the farm house as he dismounted. The modified Lorica had been further modified with the addition of a helmet with overlapping plates to shed attacks from the delicate flesh of the neck and a new coat of paint...blood red, the better to strike fear into the men who wanted to attack the city, as rows on rows of men in bloodred armor faced them with drawn blades. His armor was the only one that was different, with the helmet painted black as befitted a founder.

He drew his spatha as they drew in sight of the house, and kicked the horse into a gallop..just in time to see the gang of reavers bunch up around the door, then bust it in. Decision galvanized in his mind, and the five horsemen kicked into a trot...perhaps they'd be there in time. He kicked his feet free from the stirrups while barely slowing the horse. A step onto the porch, a cut to the left, and a reaver fell while barely realizing he was under attack. Another fell to the blades of one of his men, and then Michael was inside.

"Dorn, Dorn!" He cried, stepping within the small house. The scene was taken in at a glance...the young girl kneeling beside her father, who was clearly already dead, and three other men crowding around. Michael crashed into one of them barely thinking, punching that round shield into the face of the nearest man to drive him back a step before cutting his knee out from under him. He spun to survey the scene. His men had already killed the other two, and so he turned the blade to finish the man he had cut before turning to her. A scrap of the man's coat was used to wipe clean the spatha as he considered her for several long seconds.

Finally, he spoke, with a sigh, "It seems we got here a few moments too late, girl."
 
Esme threw her hands over her face to shield her eyes. She did not want to see their faces as they fell on her. It was horrifying enough to know that her last few seconds were going to be horribly painful. What sort of eternal hell would be waiting for her if the last thing she saw were their sneering faces? Her tiny frame trembled as she waited for the final blow. The sounds of their laughter was drowned out by her weeping. It was amazing that she hadn't made water because of her terror.

However nothing had happened. Through her heavy breathing, crying, and whimpering not a single blow came. This caused her to pause in a moment of stunned clarity. She was not going to die. As the sounds of her despair were quelled she heard something heavy in front of her fall to the floor. Through tear blurred vision she saw more blood. Slowly she looked up. One of the men who had terrorized her was dead before her. The other two assumedly fled.

Her eyes met with the one who had saved her. He simply told her. "It seems we got here a few moments too late, girl."

Her simple dress had soaked up much of the pooled blood from her father. Dirt from the field still streaked her face. What it must have looked like to him! No doubt she looked like she had been through hell and back and, really, she had been. Her light blue eyes filled with tears again and she looked away, sniffing loudly.

"Of course it was too late," she said in a hoarse tone. "My father is dead."

What was worse was that these were only three men. Three men out of how many that gang likely had. No doubt more waited the return of their brethren and when they didn't show, they likely were going show up again. Likely when she was burying her father's body.

"And I surely will be as well! There has to be more of those men."
 
"Bloody hell.." He murmured, shooting a significant glance over the rest of the house. There was one man dead just out of sight around a corner, save for one thing...his boot was still twitching, but Van was walking away from him, a hulking giant of a man that had come originally from West Virginia, a coal miner. The war hammer he carried dropped a sanguine trail away from the dead man, the ten pound head one that Michael would have had a difficult time to fight with. Truett emerged from the kitchen just a moment later, and shook his head...the other man had escaped out a window, though Truett was cleaning his dagger of more blood...evidently, the man hadn't escaped unharmed, at least. He'd never questioned where the young black man had learned his skill at fighting with a knife, but he had a feeling if the other reiver had been waiting to ambush him in the kitchen he had gotten a nasty surprise.

Michael didn't speak to his two men inside for a moment, turning back toward her to speak. "At least one's gotten away, I think. He'll be back if he can... but lone men don't survive long and I can't promise he's alone, either." He sheathed the spatha, twenty nine inches of double edged steel disappearing into the tooled leather sheath, before the wooden handle touched the brass around the opening of the sheath with a click. "Come on. Stand up." He offered her a hand, and if she took it would help her up before continuing. Otherwise he'd continue to speak. "My name is Michael, of Karak Dorn. Are you harmed?" There was so much blood on her, it was hard to tell.

Before she could answer, though, the black man coming from the kitchen cursed, talking over her shoulder to Michael. "We've got to start expanding our patrols, Michael. We got here in time to not find a cookpot, this time, but I've cleaned out too many. We ought to start really teaching the eaters to fear us." There was more than a little growl in his voice, but in spite of that his voice was still lighter than the voice that spoke up next.

"We're stretched thin enough, Truett..." The big man carrying the war hammer said, though he was cut off before he could finish what he was saying.

"Not so thin they'd miss a dozen men to dig out the hives, Van!" Truett spoke, though he too was cut off before he could continue the argument, this time by the leader of the patrol.

"Enough! This is something to bring before the assembly, you two. This young lady has been through enough without hearing you two bickering." A glare was sent over her shoulder toward the two men that had been arguing before his eyes turned back toward her. "I can offer you safe refuge in Karak Dorn, at the least...though do you know the conditions for that?"

Karak Dorn was one of three city-states in the area, highly militarized both against bands of raiders, looters, and eaters as well as the other two city states. Though it was not the closest of the three, she ought to have heard of it, though she might have gotten a distorted version of what was required. Some said that the first generation had to submit themselves to the city proper for all of their lives, and their children would be free. Others said that one in ten who submitted themselves to the city were killed so their blood could paint the armor of the warriors of Karak Dorn, as illogical as that was. Yet other versions said that they weren't killed for blood, but rather for their souls, as they were given over to the demons that were depicted on the face plates of some men's armor. The truth was far simpler than that...a person coming in had to submit themselves to service for seven years to earn their keep...be it to the city, or to an individual. At the end of that term, they were free men or women and citizens. They were free to bring items before the assembly, and vote in elections just like any other citizens. Their only duties then was the tithe tax..a tenth of their labor for the year or the equivalent in coin, typically around ten ounces of silver for an unskilled laborer.

Up till that point, of course, they could be put out, which was practically a death sentence, or their contract sold to another, and punished as the holder of their contract saw fit. It wasn't called enslavement, but it surely wasn't far from it.

He finally grew quiet, watching her with a chagrined expression, realizing he hadn't given her a chance to get a word in edgewise.
 
Esme's mind was still thoroughly fogged from the events. The other voices in her house sounded distorted and their figures misshapen; her eyes catching them every few seconds. She stared without blinking, eyes darting from one sound to another. Clearly she was not in her right mind and, really, who expected her to be? She had just witnessed the death of her father and she was about to be tortured before being killed herself. Whoever could go through that without feeling anything was a cold hearted person indeed.

So, when the clear man who saved her mentioned something about offering her sanctuary, she did what anyone would have. Instantly she jumped up, eyes wide with the fear of staying in that place. Anywhere was better than her home at that time. She was unaware that one got away to tell his other cannibal brethren but she knew that more would come.

The consequences of her actions did not even register then. Esme did not know the conditions of that arrangement. All she knew was that she needed to get away and start life anew.

"Please don't leave me here!" she exclaimed, practically throwing herself at the armor-clad savior. "I cannot. Even if the cannibals didn't return, this house is of the dead now."

How could she possibly stay in the place that her father died? She turned a frightened glance back down at her father's body and gasped loudly, hand going over her mouth. Thank goodness everything she ate before had been burned off or she might have lost it all in a fit of a churning stomach.

How was she going to burry him? Would these men help her do it or would they leave him there to rot? Her mind raced and her head pounded.
 
He nodded as he heard her asking for asylum...it was as he expected. These individual farms were simply too far out to be well protected. A man alone, or a single family, was nothing but a target. He lifted his hand, placing it atop her head with a small smile seen at the corners of his eyes and nodded. "So be it. Your contract shall be to me, then." He turned then toward his men, speaking to the large man carrying the hammer, Van. "Go outside and get Aragorn and Squints to do a circular patrol around the area...tell them I don't want any eaters getting inside their perimeter while we finish up here."

The big man tapped his helm with the heavy warhammer's head in salute, speaking as he did so, "As you wish, Skywalker. By the numbers?"

"By the numbers, nutcracker. Deuce, do a quick sweep of the house itself, just in case one's hiding. After that, head out to check the outbuildings," Michael said. The two men hurried out to do his bidding, leaving the two of them alone for the moment.

The nicknames had come from the men's time before they were officially part of Karak Dorn's military, some from movies, some from titles, and some from quite blatantly obvious references to their character. Michael's title came from his uncanny skill with a sword and his legendary luck...Truett has often quipped that he could roll sixes from here till doomsday. Truett's nickname, Deuce, came from his position in command...one step under Michael when they were still an independent fighting force, and second in command of any patrol that Michael led. As far as Van's name? Well, that came about from his choice of weapon, as well as his fighting style. Where other men tried to go around, he simply went through.

The two others mentioned, Aragorn and Squints, she hadn't met. Squints got his name from his skill at archery, and the fact that he often squinted down the arrow shaft in order to get the target to clear up at the longest distances. In another world, he might have gotten glasses by now, and even these days he was beginning to miss some of the further shots, but he was still one of the most accurate shots Michael had seen. Aragorn was a woodsman that had been the second person Michael had joined up with after the change, a brooding man who was as silent in his walking as any man alive, and able to track a week-old trail through rocks. Between his natural skill as a ranger in the classical sense and his long brown hair, the name was a natural fit.

The perimeter seen to, he turned to her, examining her behind the expressionless face mask that made up part of the armor. His gray eyes considered her for a few moments before he finally lifted his hands to his helmet. A moment's adjustment of the leather strap had his helmet free, and tucked under one arm, giving her the first look she'd have had at him. He had turned twenty seven three days prior, and showed every day, though he did not look prematurely old...that only showed in those twin chips of flint in his eyes. Indeed, if anything, his strong cheekbones and squared jaw would not show age for quite a while. Pitch black hair was cut short to fit beneath his helmet, though it was standing straight up at the moment, reveling in it's freedom.

He let out a sigh as he looked around the house, turning his eyes over the scene, deliberately letting his eyes slide out of focus a bit as they slid over the dead men. He'd already gotten as good a look as he planned to. Without looking to her, he spoke, "Is there anything you wish to take with you, any valuables? I intend to burn the house when we leave...a bier to your father and an assurance that bandits or eaters won't take refuge in it."

At first, they had made cairns for those honorable dead, trusting that the stones would keep away the wolves and coyotes..and they had. But eaters were able to shift the stones and retrieve the meat within. It was safer to burn bodies, now.
 
Most of the names slipped past her recognition. Her father had been more of a Star Trek sort of guy before the collapse of the modern world and her mother much preferred books. In fact Esme had been named after a character from her mother's favorite novel, which so happened to be written by Victor Hugo. After her mother died she attempted to read it to keep a sense of companionship but she found it depressing material in light of the situation. Not only that but it was a difficult read for someone who only managed to get a little pass a six grade reading level.

The pat on the head soothed the young woman and she pressed herself more tightly against the man. He was her savior as far as Esme was concerned. Everyone else, even if they were assisting Michael, were frightening. Mentally she was still in survival mode. He was the strongest one there; the alpha of that pack of men. It helped considerably that he was easy to look at. Handsome men were always easier for her to trust. Was it shallow of her? She was a sixteen year old girl after all and had the mind of one.

"Any valuables?" she asked again. They did not have much in there small farm-side home. The only thing she had of real value was a locket around her neck. Before the technology died her mom had gotten her it and had placed her own picture and that of her father inside of it. At the time she thought it was a weird bit of sentimentality but now she was grateful for it.

"I don't think so... but should I get my clothes?" She asked. It was a stupid question. Of course she should have gotten her clothes. "I don't have many. Just some dresses."

The mention of her father burning made her pale considerably. Was it the best way? She had wanted to give him a proper burial but she understood why. They did not have time to waste on digging up the dirt just to plant someone inside of it.

"Okay..." she replied in a small whisper. There was nothing more that could be done with the home. With no one living in it and upkeeping it, the building would fall into disrepair. She'd much rather imagine it the way it was than dilapidated and falling apart.

She was hesitant to ask but she did anyway. "Can we leave before the fire really gets going? And release the old horses? Please?"
 
"Alright. Go pack, and change. Wear warm clothing. I'll be just outside when you're done." He murmured, sending her away toward her bedroom with a gentle push to guide her in that direction. When she stepped out of the room, he pulled a blood-covered blanket from the back of one of the chairs in the house to shroud her father in so she'd not have to look on him again. Only then would he step outside, gathering up Deuce and Nutcracker. Two of the horses were not in good condition, and were let free, but two of them looked to have potential as breeders, so they were tied in among the small herd of remounts that accompanied the five men, bringing the total number up to seventeen horses in all. A horse to ride for each man, two remounts for each man, and the two breeders. Michael didn't expect to get much use out of them, but he knew that the manager of his small farm would appreciate having new stock to add to what had already been collected.

That done, he called in the two scouts with three sharp blasts of a whistle that hung around his neck in a birdlike pattern, the five men moving to change saddles on horses to fresh beasts, intending to be ready to go as soon as she was out of the house. He intended to keep his promise to be well away before the house was burning well, at least.

(Ugh...serious writer's block. They'll get better again.)
 
((That is perfectly alright. We all go through it))

Getting everything around did not take long. She did not own much in the lines of clothing. Most of the clothes she had when she was little had been pieced together to either make a larger garment or had been used for wash rags. Nothing was ever simply thrown away. That was wasteful and in that situation being wasteful was certainly a luxury. So she stuffed whatever she had in an old pink book bag she had for school when she was a little girl. She stuffed herself into a long shirt and a long sleeve shirt. Over that she threw on a holey sweater that had once belonged to her mother.

When she emerged again she was grateful that he had covered her father's body up with a sheet. Blood seeped through it but, at least, she was relieved from the horror of what laid beneath the sheet. She knew what was there and she did not need to see him like that to say good-bye to him.

She left the house with tears dripping down her face. Nothing had ever hurt her this badly. Even when her mother died she understood. She had been sick for so long and had suffered for it, so it felt as if it was in a natural design. The death of her father had been so sudden that it shocked her to her core. She staggered towards where she saw the men standing, sniffing and hiccupping.

Esme was unsure if she could even ride a horse on her own. It would be so easy for her to throw herself from that mount or easy to slip off of the side. Normally she would not even consider such a method but, now, she felt as if it was good. She had to remind herself that she was going to be taken care of; that she had a future in the new city that awaited her.

"Are we ready to leave yet?" she asked in a hushed tone, voice cracking.
 
The men standing in a small cluster all turned to look at her as she approached. One, a man that she had not seen yet holding a bow that was several inches taller than her was, let out a whistle as he spoke to Michael. "So this is the one, Skywalker? If you don't want her contract, let me know!"

Michael gave an unamused smile to the man as he spoke, "Not so fast, squints. My last pledge just left and I think a new one is in order. Besides which, do you really think Julliana would let you take another one on?" That caused a braying laughter from several of the men. Julliana was well known to wear the proverbial pants in Squint's household, and sometimes even the tail kicking boots. She had come to the city as another pledge, but things had spiraled out of control for the archer pretty quickly.

Michael cut off the laughter with a gesture as she got closer, and gave a slight bow. "You've met only part of the band, I believe, and lack proper introductions," Michael said, beginning to gesture around the circle of men in turn.

"This is Truett, who's also called Deuce. He is my second in command and the one you should turn to if you're ever unable to find me. I trust him implicitly." The man beside him turned to her, nodded, and lifted his helmet off of his head, revealing an older black man. He was perhaps in his mid-thirties, old as dirt by the standards of the change world, where those who were older simply didn't fare well.

Michael's motion turned to the next man in line as he spoke, "This is Van, also called nutcracker. He's our hammer, and cook." Van's helmet, too, came free from his head, revealing a man in his early twenties but also something that was almost unheard of in this day and age...he had some extra fat on his bones. He had never been truly big, but his genes dictated a thin layer of fat between skin and muscle, something that had helped him survive before he fell in with the other refugees.

"The joker here is Nathan, also known as squints. He's our archer and comedic relief."

"Hey!" The young man said, pulling off his blood red helmet in turn, "I don't appreciate that, tone, Skywalker...I'll have you know I'm not just your comedic relief, but the comedic relief of all of Karak Dorn!" Another round of chuckles from the men to the young man, not more than a year older than her. He had a shock of blonde hair that was mostly standing straight up under the effect of the helmet. It was hard to tell beneath the armor, but he appeared to be skinny as a rail beneath hardened steel, yet nearly as tall as Michael.

Finally, Michael's eyes turned to the last man. "And this is Chris, also known as Aragorn. He's our scout, and backup archer. While he guards the camp you may sleep at ease, for he will not allow anything to approach." Chris, alone, was out of armor, wrapped in a green cloak with a soft leather shell surrounding what appeared to be blackened chain mail...lighter than the Lorica that the others wore, and quieter, though not as protective. His long brown hair was pulled back in a pony tail, and he merely nodded serenely at her as he was introduced.

"And I'm Michael, though these gits often refer to me as Skywalker. Apparently I'm lucky, according to them, and a good thing for you. We weren't due to come this way but I made the decision to turn aside and head this way for a time on a hunch. Now, if you accompany us you'll be pledging yourself to me. Have you ever heard of Karak Dorn's procedure for new citizens?" He figured that she had. Everyone had, hadn't they?

(That's more like it)
 
Why would he want her contract? It must have been, she thought, that it was because she looked strong. Years working at the farm had given her lithe muscles but she was not grotesquely built like other girls that had spent their lives doing the same thing she had. Were hard working pledges that hard to find?

She eyed the men warily and wondered why a woman wouldn't want another worker in the house. Maybe she was the type that grew jealous of people that were able to get more done. Even though she had never personally been that sort of girl she assumed that they had to be somewhere out there. After all people would find the most ridiculous thing to be competitive over; to show how much better they were than everyone else.

When they were introduced, she simply nodded her head in recognition though she wasn't really paying much attention. Getting to know people was not in her grasp at that moment. She was confused and overwhelmed with everything that had just happened. Even the landscape around her, the same landscape she had seen thousands of times before, felt unfamiliar and cold. Without really thinking about it, she huddled closer to Michael.

Esme was surprised that he did not ask her name and she could not remember if she had given it to him. The truth was is that she was unaware of the protocol of becoming a new citizen of Karak Dorn. Really she had only heard of that place in passing when some men from there would travel through to trade for some of their produce. Her father really had protected her from the outside world. Especially when, unknown to her, many of the visiting men had tried to convince her father on binding her into a contract with them. The same one she was unknowingly now in with Michael.

"No," she replied. Her voice even sounded miserable. "I've never been anywhere outside of this farm. I don't know what it is like other places."
 
He had been waiting for her to introduce herself after the introductions that he had given, but that seemed not likely to happen. She seemed to be too preoccupied with what had happened to her, with good reason, to care much about social niceties. He'd find out soon enough, regardless. Her answer caught him by surprise, but after a moment he nodded...he shouldn't be surprised. Not everyone was as widely traveled as he had been...most her age wouldn't have left the family farm at all, much less made the twenty mile journey required to reach Karak Dorn. What had been a half-hour drive pre-change was now at least a day's walk through bandit infested woods that small families didn't dare cross.

"I suppose I had best explain it to you, then. When you first enter the city you pledge yourself to the service of one citizen for a trial period. This is a way to ensure that you have some sell able skill when you leave, and Karak Dorn is not filled with worthless people....not everyone has the skills required to join us, after all. During this time you pledge to obey the citizen that takes your contract, touch no weapon, wear no armor, handle no amount of money larger than a single silver rose, and obey any lawful command of a soldier or officer. Failing to do any of these things is punishable by exile from the lands of Karak Dorn, with offenses like striking a citizen punishable by death by hanging.'

'The citizen that holds your contract, of course, holds more power. His or her words are quite literally law. They may command you to do whatever they wish, and you are to obey them. Special cases of cruelty may be brought before the judges, but most pledges are happier with their contract holders than they would be with the city...better to be cleaning a house or learning a trade than working the fields outside of the city. There are a few things, of course, that pledges are not allowed to work on. The walls of the city, for instance, are only built by citizens so there are no weak spots for an enemy to take advantage of. Most of the laws forbidding pledges to take up arms and armor, as well as the limit of one pledge per citizen per year came from a series of revolts brought about by large groups of new pledges coming in and planning to overthrow the city."

He paused for a moment, quirking a brow in a bit of amusement. "I take it you will still want to come, even so. Staying here is a death sentence, but if you wish to leave and go back to your house, I will not stop you."
 
What he described sounded like a nightmare to her. No way to actually earn money. No way to defend herself if someone attacked her; it would mean death if she did or exile from the only safe harbor she had. How long was this trial period to last and could it possibly be extended by a particularly cruel master? It was ridiculous to assume that not everyone had a skill. Esme could farm and knew how to stitch pretty good. Were those skills not suitable for Karak Dorn?

The stress from the regulations given to her made her head pound even further and she brought her hands up to rub furiously at her temples to make the pain go away. This was so much, so soon after she had lost everything. She replied with a curt cry and dissolved into tears again.

"I can't stay here!" she exclaimed. "You know I will be killed if I do!"

There were a few more moments of sobbing; gut retching wails that spoke volumes of the losses that life had dealt her. Not only had her father been brutally killed by savage cannibals but she was going to be little more than a slave to Michael. However, with a sniff, she realized that he was probably not going to be too hard on her. If all she did were chores in a house, it did not seem that bad to her. He would probably not hurt her either or strike her.

"I'll come with you. I'll come."
 
He expected the outburst. No one could go through what she went through without trauma...he'd give her a few days to adjust before beginning to look for any real work out of her, knew better than to expect it.

"I figured you would say that. Good. The upside to all this is you will be given a hundred silver roses when your seven years are up, and I am required to be there to answer any questions you might have till I die...that way, pledges have an automatic support structure, instead of being no-ones. Come. Let's go, and we'll see if we can't get back to the city before night hits." He took a step away, guiding her to the horse that had been prepared for them. It was a roan gelding, perhaps sixteen hands tall and showing a strong streak of Morgan blood in addition to the quarter horse stock that was clearly the baseline for the animal's breed. Good horseflesh, anyway one looked at it. Horses had become far more important since the change, where they were pampered riding beasts for the young and the foolish. Now, they were working animals again, and beginning to be spiraled into and out of all kinds of interesting breed combinations.

A foot was placed into the stirrup, and he swung up onto the horse before extending a hand down to her. Assuming she took that hand, he'd haul her up as if she weighed not an ounce and settled her before him, one armored forearm clamping around her waist. "Just relax," he murmured, as he nudged the horse with his heels, starting them back onto the road south from whence he had come. Aragorn stayed just behind to fire the house, and by the time they were no more than a mile down the road there was a thick column of black smoke rising to the sky, though they were mercifully out of sight of the house.

They rode in silence for a time, the five men scanning the treeline for more eaters. They were a small patrol, and isolated...some large bands may feel comfortable attacking them. But after the second mile passed the group finally seemed to relax a bit. Deuce and squints rode ahead just a bit, talking quietly, while Nutcracker retrieved a book from his saddlebags to read, holding it in oddly gentle fingers, though they were the size of some sausages. Aragorn was nowhere to be seen, ranging wide around them to search for human sign. Though Michael kept an ear out for the piercing whistle that would signal there was trouble, he was not overly concerned. The further they got, the closer they got to the city, and the more frequent the patrols would be. Eaters wouldn't dare push far into the city's patrol zone for fear of being hung when they were caught.

Michael finally broke the silence some miles in, cocking his head slightly to the side as he considered her. "I don't think I've caught your name, and so you have me at a distinct disadvantage, I do believe."
 
A shocked little gasp escaped her small mouth as he pulled her up from the ground as if she weighed nothing. Even at her slight weight there were not many men who could pull that off. She merely sat, dumbfounded, as they prepared to leave. The scent of the smoke was the only thing that caught her attention and a pang of sadness was her silent goodbye to the life she knew.

The silence was nearly overbearing for her. Without any sounds to distract her from her thoughts, she was reliving what had just happened. Quiet tears streaked down her face. How she wished this was all a nightmare. Every time the strong animal beneath them halted suddenly or she felt his arm press a little bit harder around her narrow waist, she expected to be jolted awake. She was lucky that she was not feeling the stress of possibly being attacked by Eaters or bandits.

Whenever she saw the others become more relaxed; the two ahead of them chatting amongst themselves and the one beside them reading at a very odd angle. She wished that she had brought a book with her. What she would give to be able to hide away in a fantasy land.

"Esme," she replied in a crackling voice. "Though I don't think it's much of a disadvantage if you don't know my name. I mean, you practically own me now, you could call me anything you damned well pleased and I couldn't make a fuss over it."

She could not keep her tone light. The disdain she felt for the situation was clearly displayed in it and, at that moment, she did not care. Her mouth got her in trouble when she was not inwardly thinking of herself. Now it was likely to be ten times worse. The pain in her head pounded on against her temple and she brought up a hand to rub it again.
 
"Mmm. I suppose I could call you a blue footed booby, if I wanted to, but for now I think Esme works better." He said, a bit amused. He was willing to cut her slack, but only so much. While she had been through a lot, he had never been a man really known for his patience, and dealing with whining people was not one of his strong suits. He tried charm first, though.

"You know, I suppose you ought to consider yourself lucky it was one of us that picked you up, men of Karak Dorn. The free cities of Yakima are slavers to the core, and would have loved to pick you up for one of their pleasure dens. Even they're not as bad as the cutters, though. Those fanatics want to increase their numbers as quickly as they can and are not against kidnapping women to serve as breeders under the guise of wives." He turned and spat over the side of the horse, apparently to show his disdain for what he thought of the cutters, from the third city-state in the area. "It always gives me the willies, working with the traders from there. One of the wives showed me her back, and the scars I saw there!"

He shook his head with a wry smirk as he considered her, speaking once more. "Yet you don't care about that at all, do you? You're just worried about how hard your life is going to be. The world has changed, kid. A person has to prove their worth now, or they're not worth the food to feed them."

Which was, though cold, quite literally true. Now that massive combines didn't harvest equally massive harvests of wheat, food was comparatively more expensive, and thus more prized. Where pre-change people might have held some sympathy for those who could not work, that had been burned out of the survivors during the famines right after the change...something that she hadn't likely had to see, considering her father's farm.
 
Pleasure dens? Breeders? What sort of sick world lay past the confines of her farm? Her father had told her that women were to be respected and adored. It was almost as if when technology got thrown into the dark ages so did the progressive views on women's rights. Inwardly she fumed. Susan B. Anthony likely was rolling around in her grave for what had happened.

The rest of his words were harsh and fed a fire inside of her. Anger was bubbling up inside. After the initial shock of everything came the fury. That much she knew as she had to go through grieving before and Michael was there fueling that feeling. For a few seconds she was able to leave well enough alone, content to chew on her tongue until it nearly bled, however she could not keep her trap shut for long.

"I am not worried about how hard my life is going to be," she retorted hotly. Color had risen to her cheeks. "I have worked very hard my entire life, thank you very much, and I dislike being called pretty much worthless."

She crossed her arms in front of her chest and leaned back heavily on him, using his body as a support beam. "I have no idea how long I am supposed to be in your service either. I know, from what people have told me when visiting the farm, that I'll be considered an old maid if I am not loaded with a husband and children in three years. Three years! My life is practically forfeit."

Esme was on a tirade, which was not uncommon. She took a deep breath as if to continue on.
 
Philosophers had wondered about the treatment of others as well...most especially women. The fact of the matter was that all the high ideals of civilization had went up in flames along with the civilization that made them possible. She and her father had likely been too far out to experience most of it, but in the larger cities it became more prevalent.

He snorted as he heard her, waiting till she paused to catch her breath before speaking. "First off, you will serve me for seven years and one day...starting the moment you step into the city, to the hour. No more, no less, just like any other pledge. And old maid you may be, but when you do bear children they will have a far better chance in the city than alone on the farm. How long till a crop failed, or another band of eaters came along? Besides that, where would you find a husband? There are not many farms in the area, and most of the traders are from the cutters...they might claim you'd be their wife, but only till they introduced you to their other three that you are expected to serve as well, being the junior wife."

Before she could gather herself to launch herself verbally at him again, he spoke to cut her off. "Now, I expect, and demand respect out of you, Esme. If you are disrespectful to me, I will show you what happens to those who are unable to guard their tongues. It should not take many times laying over my lap before you begin to realize that it is foolish to fight."
 
Seven years. Those two word alone had been enough to throw her world off kilter again. Tears rose in her eyes once more. Seven years of work and, by the time she was freed, she would have only a few years left to herself before she died off. A few years to even have children and then to leave them far too early like her mother had left her. That was not something she wanted in the least. She felt cheated. As if he lured her there under false pretenses. Not only that but he taunted her with what could have happened to her. Did that matter? It was not what had come to pass. Instead she was faced with the very painful reality.

"Respect? I'll respect you as the man who saved me," she replied in a slow and dangerous tone. "You don't have to taunt me though. Don't I deserve some respect to? If not for my new lot in life than as someone who is mourning the death of the only family she has ever known?"

Esme didn't know what he meant by over his lap. It sounded like an odd sort of punishment. Her parents hadn't spanked her as a child so she was clueless as to what he meant.
 
She'd find out soon enough if she kept it up. He did not tolerate disrespect among his pledges, and wasn't about to start now.

He blew out a breath through his nose as he heard her, trying to calm a bit of his anger before speaking. "When, and if, you earn my respect it will be because you've learned a bit of humility. That is the hardest lesson and leads to all others, being willing to learn what others have to teach you. Till then I think it would be best that you are quiet, unless you want to see some punishment."

Which would likely amuse his men greatly. Deuce and Squint were both peering back over their shoulder toward them, the younger man elbowing the other lightly as they waited, evidently to see if Michael would bring her into town bare as the day she was born as he had for his other pledge.
 
Punishment? What was he going to do? Send her to bed without her supper? It had never occurred to her that he would humiliate her as a form of punishment. The way her father had dealt with her more rambunctious moments was to not feed her for a night and take away any of the books she had been reading at the moment. Those sorts of things almost seemed petty in light of what had just happened so, really, what did she have to lose?

However, it was the two men in front of her that had caught her anger before she could turn it back around on Michael. They found it entertaining that she was being treated that way. It must have been sport for men to torture woman in the city that they dwelled.

"Is there really something so interesting over here?!" she barked at the two. "Shouldn't you two be watching what's going on ahead of you or are citizens of the city not trained for the seven years required by pledges?"
 
That brought his attention around sharply. "I will allow you to talk to me....you have lost your father, and your life. But you may not talk to my men that way. Very well, if you wish it this way, so be it."

He pulled the horse short with a sharp tug on the reins and a backward lean, before dropping the reins forward over the horse's head. The beast was well trained, and would not move, not until Michael picked up those reins again. Within a heartbeat, he was down off the beast, drawing her with him, deliberately keeping her off balance as he went with a hand on her wrist drawing her more quickly than her body was ready for. Again, his strength was on display, though he held not a candle to Van, he was strong enough to overpower her like a boxer attacking a kitten.

He pushed her to the ground, facedown, and planted an armored knee between her shoulder blades to hold her down. A bit of sisal rope, grabbed from the saddle when he was exiting it, wrapped around each of her wrists in a figure eight motion twice before being bound and tied between her wrists. He shifted, pressing his knee along her lower legs to prevent her from kicking him as he bound her ankles in much the same way.

"Perhaps humility can be taught to you, but I see it will take extraordinary measures. Be glad it's summertime...riding nude would be most uncomfortable in winter." Only then did he draw his knife. He rested the flat, cold back of the blade against her skin beneath her dress, drawing it up and back to part the fabric on the fine edge of the blade. Within a few minutes, she was nude, and her dress as well as her underthings were left on the ground as he again lifted her now naked form. He'd lower her across the saddle like a sack of grain, before rising to mount himself. His hand rested on her ass to steady her, even as the laughter of the men began to ring in her ears. She'd come to love him eventually. But she needed to respect him right bloody now. A little hate and fear would not work against that terribly, either.
 
Esme struggled as she was pulled off of the horse, a horrid sort of yelp coming from her. What in good god was he planning to do with her? She kicked her legs, screamed, and flailed in attempts to break free from him. She did not care if it was dangerous out there! She would become a bandit but she did not want to be his pledge anymore.

With an almighty push he had her on the ground and before she could react he planted a painfully armored knee into her back. Crying sharply she stopped squirming. "You're hurting me!"

Another cry escaped from her throat as his knee left her back to be pressed against her legs to keep her from moving as she tied her ankles like he had her wrists. Her face was burning a bright red from humiliation. Now she understood what he meant by punishment.

At least she thought she knew.

The flash of a knife caught her off guard at first but then his words sunk in when he began to tear through her clothing. She begged him to stop as more of her flesh was expose. And what glorious flesh it was. Her body was slighter than what her clothes would have lead others to believe. With her small frame, a larger man could have wrapped his hands around her waist and touched fingers on either side. From that position he could see rounded hips that flared out into a heart shaped bottom and breasts that, while small, still stood out against the narrow mid section. Her legs weren't entirely skinny either; instead the years of work had made them toned and shapely. A knife had been taken to her legs and beneath her arms as there was not a trace of hair there. It seemed that she was developing into a very fine woman.

Pale pink nipples perked as the air hit them and she began to cry when she noticed the others laughing at her.

"Stop it!" she pleaded as she was lifted up on to the saddle. She visibly flinched as his hand landed on her bottom. "Don't touch me there!"
 
"You're pretty enough, I'll give you that." He said, amused, as he drew back a hand to deliver a sharp smack to that heart-shaped ass. His hand was still encased in the leather gloves that he wore, and he knew that it hurt far worse for her than he. "But you have got to learn that you're a pledge now. Which means that you do as I say, no matter what that might be. If it means running through the streets of Karak Dorn in nothing but a cloak of chicken feathers, by God you will be weaving a cloak of chicken feathers. If I tell you to leap from the wall, you leap from the wall. Perhaps I've been too soft on you so far, too concerned about where you came from. That being said, you need to know before we reach the city, and I cannot delay in teaching you."

His hand raised and lowered again, then again, and again. Somewhere about mid-way through he paused to remove that heavy leather glove, his skin hitting hers with a solid smack each time that it fell till both hand and bottom achieved a bright shade of redness. Only then would his hand rest against her ass again, lightly rubbing her by now tender flesh as he spoke. "Now, apologize for being disrespectful."
 
Sharp pain exploded on her bottom as he brought down his hand for the first time, instantly causing her to shout and trash in the saddle. That was the only time she had experienced pain outside of the ache in her muscles and the blisters on her hands that work had caused. It was entirely unpleasant.

His words made her fume but she did so silently. How was this being too soft?! He had practically given her little option but to come with him and now he was treating her as if she was little less than a work mule.

Then the spanking continued. He wailed on her bottom and each time his hand fell down on her bottom she jumped and wailed and made an awful fuss about it. Somewhere in the mix he had managed to remove his leather glove and his bare hand stung more against her throbbing backside. By the time he was finished it felt like a heart was beating in the damned thing.

There was also another strange sensation was only a little bit familiar with. Between her legs there was a strange pulse and, as she squirmed, she felt slickness rub against her thighs.

Instantly she was quelled. Not for the pain in her ass but for the arousal she felt from it.

"I'm sorry," she replied in a strained whisper.
 
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